Quentin and Cecil arrived in Perth WA at 12.45 am this morning.  Upon arising, around 7.30 am the day took an unexpected turn.

We’d blanked it out; The Melbourne Cup, that is.  We’d travelled 3000 kilometres to the other side of the country and as far as we were concerned, as seasoned international travelers, The ‘Cup’ ceased to exist.

But it defied us.  It’s palpable, it’s tactile, as soon as we stumbled onto the street we felt it.  First corner, an ‘On Street Bookie’, dressed to the nines, part Arthur Daley, part Spiv Property Developer (think Christopher Skase) his bag-man in black tie, the odds on the board, and amongst them women in high heels, (no, higher heels,) indescribable fascinators, office blokes immaculately dressed, the form guide in hand.  It was 7.30 in the morning, but they were off to a late start.  That three hour time difference to Melbourne means a lot in WA; there was a lot of catching up to do.  We met Ned in the Green room, the waitress was beautifully tattooed. I’m at that age when all women are beautiful, and the studs in her nose, her ears and the sailor tattoo on one arm, the damsel in the other, caused the conversational preamble to wander a little, and with it my eyes.

On the streetscape partially above our semi submerged winter garden I could see the ladies walking by, fascinators, suspenders, high hats, tight dresses, and a myriad of colour, walking the street Adelaide terrace, St Georges Terrace.  Through streetscapes once provincial, now boisterous in a sort of ersatz, baroque corporate standard, curtain glass walls, logos and the certainty, above all certainty that in Perth, land of the giants, business is big.  The BHPBilliton Building dominates, more ponderous than the sphinx rising above the others in a monolithic statement of absolute certainty, that mining, real estate and capital is all that counts.  That’s a sure-fire cert!!  And No Error!!!

But what was this?  In Kings park, the race broadcast blared across from the marquees, the punters were in full force, office parties, a real festival atmosphere, it seemed everyone in Perth was awash with ‘Cup Fever’.  To forget about the cup would be to wallow in a miserable sloth of self indulgence, the celebratory atmosphere was tangible, tactile and all pervasive.  In Bunbury, (90 minutes south of Perth) the streets were eerily silent, everyone it seems had taken the day off, and finally when we arrived in Margaret River, (bastion of the WA alternatives) the pubs were overflowing with people, the young, the middle and the elderly, all females adorned in fascinators, (this is what royal weddings teach you) and the celebration of, above all things, the absurdity of life, laughter, and taking a punt.  This is bigger than ANZAC day, bigger than the footy.  This is monumental I said to Cecil.  We looked about us, it was hard to hear oneself in the pub, not loud music just a exuberance borne by knowing how to celebrate,  and with that, a practiced tradition bordering on the erudite in combining good fun with drinking and great friends..

We walked around the pub in search of beauty, that here was in abundance, Cecil suggested to local, that the girls go to an awful lot of trouble, and the blokes it seemed, were on the casual side of casual  The blokes, the local reflected, well, the blokes, they just wanna get pissed.  There was Dostoyevskian wit in that, Cecil mused.  I could only agree.